


Desert Wind Requiem

by metalloverben



Series: Invisible Ties Series [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Gen, Prequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-15
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 04:52:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13380570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/metalloverben/pseuds/metalloverben
Summary: After the death of his wife Exalt Roland falls into a deep depression, only coming out of it to wage a disastrous war when news reaches him from Plegia that a child has been born to bear host to the Fell Dragon's essence and end the world. The official Prelude story to the Invisible Ties saga! *contains minor spoilers for Invisible Ties*





	Desert Wind Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> This is the official Prequel Story to Invisible Ties and Future’s End. I’m hoping to round out the saga with this story, to give the universe a little more meat. I’ll probably do an epilogue story, too, once Future’s End is done, but that’s neither here nor there. It is the story of the first short yet disastrous war in Plegia, starring Robin’s mother and (mostly) Chrom’s father, as well as a number of other familiar and not-so-familiar faces. Fair warning now, though; this will not be a happy story. At all. In the slightest. This will also be predominantly an OC story. Again, this is something that could easily be turned into a full novel on its own, but I figured this would be good enough to get it out of my system.

A cold wind blew through the dunes in Plegia, the harsh sun of the day forgotten now as the people hunkered down in an attempt to stay warm through the night. Far to the south, near the Dragon’s Table plateau, the desert grew perilously cold at night.

One young woman, her long brown hair flying around in the wind, heaved a sigh beneath the moonlight, huddling herself tighter under her long black coat. She would easily be described as a beauty, with strong features and a warrior’s grace. However her attractive features were pulled into a thoughtful frown as she stared into the vast nothingness of the desert, searching for answers to the questions that were plaguing her.

“Lady Alexia,” a strong voice called out to her from behind. “You should not be out so late. You will catch a chill.”

The woman turned, glancing over her shoulder. In the distance she could see the towering form of the Sanctum of Grima, the most holy of temples for the Grimleal religion. Around the base of the temple was a sea of canvas tents, cooking fires still burning between them even during this late hour. In fact, it was because of the temple in the distance that Alexia was facing away, looking out over the desert.

“I will be fine, Mustafa,” she said in a cloud of white mist.

Alexia smiled slightly as she turned back to look at the moonlit dunes, dust whorls dancing in the silvery light and creating an ephemeral atmosphere. The bodyguard that her ‘husband’ had appointed her, a hulking man with a great black beard and long matching hair, stopped a respectful distance behind her, watching silently.

Alexia gave a small chuckle, tucking the loose strands of her hair back behind her ear.

“I assure you, Mustafa, no one is going to try and kill me this close to the Sanctum,” she laughed. “You may pass that assurance on to Validar, too.”

“Your husband is indisposed, milady,” Mustafa said, his broad face turning downwards into a slight frown.

The woman scoffed, fingering the solitary golden ring on her finger.

“He would be,” she muttered. “He has much to do to protect our son. Aversa is asleep?”

Mustafa nodded. “She was when I left, milady.”

Alexia couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of having her own bodyguard, making Mustafa cock his head slightly as his frown increased.

“No, thank you Mustafa,” she said quickly, still laughing. “It is just… I am not yet used to having a body-guard. It will take some adjusting to.”

Mustafa nodded sagely, his face relaxing as another gust of wind buffeted them.

“I understand, milady,” he said. “But you should have expected this when you married the Hierophant of the Grimleal. He is an important man, some say even more so than the king.”

“Ah, do not let my old friend hear you saying that,” Alexia said, laughing again. “Polybius always was touchy about such things. He almost had a fit when I told him I was marrying Validar.”

“You are not a believer, then?” Mustafa asked, his brow furrowing again.

Alexia sighed, pushing one of the more stubborn strands of hair back from her face again.

“I was once,” she said, her voice being lost in the wind.

“Come,” she said once the wind died down. “We should return to the Sanctum and continue to pack. We need to be ready to move the second Validar is done enchanting our child.”

Mustafa nodded, snapping to attention before moving to follow at Alexia’s shoulder.

“Do you think the Ylisseans know already?” the big man asked.

“I’m not sure,” Alexia answered honestly. “But I’m not willing to take the chance with my children’s lives. I will take them out into the desert and raise them to be tacticians until the day that their country needs them.”

“That is a worthy dream for your children,” Mustafa said admiringly.

Alexia nodded, drawing her hood back up over her head and ducking low so her face was obscured. She didn’t want Mustafa to see the sour look on her face.

* * *

The nation of Ylisse was a prosperous one. Nestled between the Eastern Ocean and the mountains to the west that separated it from their western neighbors in Plegia, and separated by the lakes and Longfort in the north from the barbaric clansmen of Regna Ferox, Ylisse was a nation of farms and orchards, of rolling pastures and idyllic forests. Trade existed between the three nations, of course, but Ylisseans held themselves above the barbarian warriors of the north and the sand-rat nomads of the west.

It was a good nation, where banditry was scarce and food was plentiful. The kind of nation where a traveler could lay himself down in a field without fear of being robbed or otherwise accosted.

The nation’s people, likewise, were usually almost universally happy.

But the people at present universally mourned the loss of their Exalt’s Queen.

That was what Exalt Roland III of House Ylisse had been told.

In truth, he would not know himself. He had not left his room in the week since his wife’s death.

A coat of thick blonde stubble coated his jaw, and his usually neat shoulder-length hair was unkempt. He spent his days sitting in silence, staring at the pendant in his hands that he had given his wife on their first wedding anniversary.

Jeanne of Themis had been different to the other noblewomen that his parents had presented to him as potential suitors. Unlike the other women who had acquiesced to his every whim, Jeanne had been fiery and strong. She had surprised him with her strength of will, and when he had inherited the throne after the passing of his father she had sat at his side as an equal, rather than an accessory. She had given him three beautiful children, their youngest Lissa still a mere babe in arms. Their oldest, Emmeryn, was caring for her brother Chrom; the lad was still too young to fully understand what was happening, and his sister was doing her best to console him.

Emmeryn reminded him so much of Jeanne…

But she was gone.

It was a simple fact that Roland kept coming back to, still unable to grasp the enormity of it.

Jeanne of Themis, Queen Consort of Ylisse’s Exalt, his wife and the mother of his children, was dead.

Just as Roland hunched forward again, teetering at the cusp of the despair he’d become so acquainted with in the last week, a knock at his chamber’s doors stole his attention.

“I do not wish to be disturbed,” he called, his voice hoarse.

Contrary to his wishes, though, the door opened and another man of similar age to him stepped into the darkened room.

The man wore thick plate armor, lighter around his waist so not to hamper his movement atop his horse. His scruffy, short red hair and neatly trimmed red beard were at odds with each-other, but that was the signature style of Ylisse’s Deputy Knight-Commander. He claimed it made him seem ‘dashing’. Or so he liked to think, anyway.

“So you have said,” Cullen scoffed. “And said again, and again, and again for the last week.”

“And yet here you stand,” Roland sighed.

“And yet here I stand,” Cullen repeated, spreading his hands wide.

Roland sighed, quashing the helpless anger he felt. It would do him no good to lash out at one of his oldest friends in his grief. As broken as he was, he knew that. With another deep breath he composed himself, but still did not meet Cullen’s gaze.

“What is so important?” the Exalt asked finally.

“Well, there’s actually a list,” Cullen shrugged. “I can skip the non-crisis level items if you wish…”

Roland barked out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Start small,” he said. “What’s the most important thing?”

Cullen stopped for a moment, his lips pursing tight before he shook his head.

“Your children need their father,” the Knight said evenly. “As much as you suffer, they suffer doubly so. Their mother is dead, and their father cloisters himself away. Emmeryn and Chrom need to see you, old friend. I can make everything else wait a little longer.”

* * *

The palace’s nursery had been moved from the bottom floor up to not far from the Exalt’s own chambers when Jeanne had found out she was pregnant with their first child. She had claimed that she wanted to feel like a family, even when the rulers were swamped by work. She had wanted to be able to steal away a few moments whenever she could to spend with her children, something she had done right up until she had become bedridden after Lissa’s birth.

Roland took a deep breath as he stared at the solid wood of the nursery’s door. He closed his eyes and mustered his courage before pushing it open and stepping inside.

It was not late, only just after supper, and Emmeryn and Chrom sat with a tall, thin woman near the fireplace while Lissa was no doubt being nursed in the next room.

The Pegasus Knight Phila looked up, her pale blonde hair tightly pulled back from her angular face in a bun at the back of her head.

“Milord,” she greeted him, rising respectfully to her feet.

Emmeryn looked confused for a moment when she spotted her father, but that confusion was swept away when her brother practically threw himself across the room.

“Father!” Chrom shouted, latching on around Roland’s legs.

“Hello, son,” he said softly.

He squatted down, pulling his son into his arms before ruffling his dark blue hair. Hair, Roland couldn’t help but think, that was the exact same hue as his mother’s had been.

“Good evening, Father,” Emmeryn said, crossing the room.

She stopped just before him and curtseyed, her movements perfect. She wasn’t quite as young as her siblings, and had been taking etiquette lessons among her other studies for quite some time now. Roland gave her a brittle smile as he marveled at just how much she resembled her mother. She had her father’s hair, and the mark of the Exalt was displayed prominently on her forehead, but apart from that…

“Good evening, Emmy,” he said, his voice thick.

The Exalt reached out and drew his oldest daughter into a hug with one arm, the young Chrom still firmly held in his other. He planted a kiss on the top of each of their heads before drawing back slightly.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been to see you in so long,” he said quietly.

Emmeryn shook her head, wrapping her arms around her father’s neck and snuggling close to him.

“Not at all, Father,” she said softly. “We understand you must be… busy at present.”

“Yes. Busy,” Roland repeated woodenly as Chrom squirmed in his grip.

“Where’s mother?” the boy asked suddenly. “I haven’t seen her all week! Where is she?”

Emmeryn sucked in a quick breath while Roland reeled back as if he’d been struck.

Of course the boy was still too young to understand that his mother was gone.

“Chrom, we’ve spoken about this,” Emmeryn said quickly.

“No!” Chrom cried, tears beginning to fall from his eyes. “Where’s mama!? I want mama!”

Roland rose to his feet at the same time as Phila crossed the room, moving to her lord’s side. Emmeryn drew the sobbing Chrom into another hug while he thrashed and screamed.

“Milord, forgive the child, he-” Phila started.

Roland cut her off with a wave of his hand before running the appendage down his face.

“You mother is gone, Chrom,” he said coldly. “She’s not coming back.”

“No!” the boy screamed in his sister’s arms. “No! I want mama! Mama!”

Roland shook his head, turning away.

“Emmeryn, calm him down,” he said. “Phila, keep watch over them.”

“Of course, milord,” the Pegasus Knight said with a bow.

The Exalt nodded, making for the door as Emmeryn did her best to quiet her brother. He swayed as he reached the doorway, having to reach out a hand to steady himself against the wall. His son’s cries cut through him like a knife.

And there was nothing he could do to console the boy.

* * *

Later that night Roland stood in front of the full length mirror in his chambers, the dull moonlight from outside giving some sparse illumination. Enough that he could see the wreck of a man staring back at him clearly, anyway.

He ran his fingertips over his bare and well-defined chest, lingering on the Mark of the Exalt on his left bicep above his heart. The scar-colored brand marked him as Naga’s bloodline, marked him for greatness. Yet he couldn’t even protect his own family. His parents were gone. His wife was dead. His children screamed for their mother in front of him.

He was lost… broken.

When they had exchanged vows they had promised to rule side-by-side for all their lives.

Yet now he was alone.

With a roar of his pent up frustration Roland lashed out, his fist impacting and shattering the mirror where it reflected his brand.

Roland gasped, his breathing ragged as blood began to run down his fist and fall to the floor. He held his hand up, shaking in the moonlight as the vitae ran down his arm.

The sound of his door opening was like sandpaper on Roland’s nerves, and when Cullen stuck his head into the room, torchlight from the hallway invading with the deputy Knight-Commander, the Exalt finally snapped.

“Milord, are you-”

“Get out!” Roland snarled with all his pent up frustration and rage.

There was a moment of silence before Cullen wordlessly withdrew, plunging the room back into darkness.

* * *

A month later and Roland had fully returned to his daily duties running the realm. Unfortunately just because he grieved didn’t mean his kingdom stopped. There was always some dispute that needed adjudicating between the nobles, some trade policy he needed to sign. Paperwork and audiences and training and prayer, the monotony helped. He worked until he was ready to drop, and it helped.

He was still distant from his children, though; Chrom still would not accept that his mother was gone and regularly threw tantrums. Emmeryn had her lessons to attend. And Lissa…

Roland tried. He tried so damn hard to tell himself that it wasn’t the child’s fault. That Jeanne had fallen ill and her passing had nothing to do with Lissa’s birth. But he’d seen her become weak while carrying all three children…

“Your Grace?” a calm, melodious voice called out.

Roland snapped back to reality, reminding himself where he was.

The Cathedral to Naga, the sprawling edifice of worship situated across from the palace in Ylisstol, was a beacon of calm and tranquility in the city. Its ancient stone and plaster walls had stood for centuries, since the City-State’s founding after the Scourging. It had long been Roland’s refuge, and even now he came to pray to Naga for guidance every evening.

The Grand Cleric, an older woman named Rhea, stood before him. Roland quickly rose up from the pew he’d been waiting on, offering one last silent prayer to the statue of Naga on the altar in front of him, before turning to the Priestess.

“You called for me, High-Priestess?”

Rhea nodded, motioning the Exalt follow her. They began to walk, the old woman leading him deeper into the Cathedral.

“You have come here often for guidance since your wife’s passing,” the old priestess said.

“I find solace in my faith,” Roland said automatically.

“Perhaps,” Rhea chuckled. “Or perhaps you have yet to find it, and that is why you are here?”

“I’m here because you summoned me,” Roland reminded her.

Out of all the people in Ylisse, the High-Priest or Grand Cleric of Naga’s Church were the closest in power and authority to the Exalt. The order’s priests were soldiers in their own right, many having martial prowess that rivalled that of the two Knight Orders; indeed, when the Knights rode to battle or the army marched the War Priests always accompanied them.

Like the Exalt, though, the position of Grand Cleric carried a lot of respect from the common-folk. When the Exalt and the Church were divided, so too were the people. It was important that Roland and Rhea be on the same page.

They walked together in silence for a time, passing through the bright and solemn cathedral. The statues of Naga lining the main hall were all still veiled in mourning for the Queen, and every time Roland looked at one he felt another pang of grief.

“We have received word,” Rhea began in a soft voice.

Roland had to lean closer to her as they walked to hear the old woman, she was speaking so quietly. She led the Exalt through various chambers in the Cathedral, long since having passed into the private areas reserved for the clergy alone.

“One of our missionaries in Plegia has come across something of great import,” she explained. “We have long suspected, but only recently been able to prove it.”

“What?” Roland asked, his patience growing short.

Rhea stopped as she entered a small room, clearly her own quarters. She lowered herself slowly into a chair, her old body clearly aching after her day’s duties.

“To think that this calamity would fall upon us…” she muttered before looking up at Roland again.

“It is Grima’s Avatar. A child has been born to bear the soul of Fell Dragon. A perfect host. A harbinger of destruction.”

* * *

Roland sat in his office a few hours later, the last dying rays of sunlight in the twilight sky beginning to fade as evening drew upon the city.

The Exalt heaved a great sigh, resting his chin on one hand as he stared at the wall and tried to come to terms with what Rhea had told him.

“The Avatar of Grima,” Roland mumbled, repeating a passage from the Book of Naga. “The embodiment of destruction. The destroyer of worlds…”

There was a strong knock at the door before it opened, Cullen entering the room ahead of another, older man. Knight Commander Mackenzie, his lined face drawn tight above the mantle of his office, strode into the Exalt’s study in full armor, coming to a stop just before his lord’s desk.

“Knight Commander,” Roland greeted, sitting up straight. “So good of you to come.”

“You said it was of the upmost import, milord,” Mackenzie replied. “Of course I would be here. And may I say that it does my old bones good to see some of the fire returned to your eyes.”

“You are not that old yet,” Roland scoffed, before looking around the bigger man.

“And Cullen. Thank you for coming, too.”

“Of course, milord,” the Deputy Commander said with a nod and a conspiratorial wink.

There was another knock at the door before any more pleasantries could be exchanged, and three more people entered the study. One, a tall rake-thin man with oversized spectacles hanging off his nose wore the robes of a clerk; one of Roland’s most trusted advisors and his voice on the Ylissean Council of elders, Hierarch Franz. The other two were women in lighter armor similar to that suits worn by Mackenzie and Cullen; the Wing Commander Cily and her Deputy Commander Hilde.

Wing Commander Cily was a harsh woman that had immigrated from Regna Ferox, popular with the troops for her no-nonsense attitude towards authority, her face beneath her close-cropped black hair all angles and her limbs covered in tight whipcord muscle. Roland had only ever seen her in a dress once at his wedding, and it had been equal parts terrifying and hilarious. Hilde, on the other hand, was her polar opposite; beautiful and of a full figure, Hilde’s long silvery-blue hair reached down past her shoulders, covering the left half of her pretty face where it had been disfigured by a stray arrow in a border skirmish with Plegian bandits some years ago.

“Milord,” Cily said, bowing slightly. “I am glad to see you about again.”

Hilde emulated her Commander silently as Franz approached the desk.

“What is the meaning of this, Roland?” the thin man asked. “Why are we meeting in your study, of all places? And more importantly, when did you realize that you even had a study?”

Cullen snorted, clearly trying and failing to hold in his laughter as the two Pegasus Knights glared at the Hierarch. Mackenzie chuckled a little, shaking his head.

Cullen, Franz and Roland had grown up together in Ylisstol, friends since childhood. Where Cullen was bound by his oaths of Knighthood to be respectful to Roland, Franz was not; a fact that he liked to remind the Exalt of at every given opportunity.

“Right after I remembered it was where I could hide from your endless paperwork,” Roland quipped, a slight grin rising to his lips. “But I’ll explain what’s going on once we’re all here.”

There was a third, more hesitant knock at the door before it opened again. Two more men entered the already crowded space, men that were not usually permitted in this part of the palace like the others were.

“Isthes, Father Marcius, please come in,” Roland said, gesturing to the newcomers.

The shorter of the two men, wearing black and cream robes beneath a high pointed hat that was the symbol of the Royal Mage’s Academy in Ylisstol strode right up to the desk, crossing his arms and waiting impatiently. Isthes was the representative of the Mage’s Academy, the third-largest organization in Ylisstol beside the Exalt’s Knights and the Church of Naga, and he was not a man known for his patience. Even Roland knew that much. The Mage Princeps couldn’t have made his displeasure at the short notice summons clearer.

The taller man bowed deeply, his white robes brushing the floor as he straightened and stood slightly apart from the others. An older man, Marcius had been sent by Rhea to liaise directly with Roland on behalf of the Church. In fact, it had been this very priest that had uncovered news of the birth of Grima’s Avatar in the first place. His broad shoulders beneath his robes spoke of a lifetime of fighting, and his slab-like face was dominated by a great white beard, despite him being entirely bald.

“I will wait apart until you have brought the others up to speed,” Marcius said, his deep voice oddly soft as he moved to one side.

“Get on with it,” Isthes snapped. “I have better things to do than stand in the dark surrounded by muscle-heads.”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Roland started. “We face a crisis the likes of which we have never seen.”

There was a hushed breath that passed through the room, and even the surly mage Isthes grew still at the Exalt’s tone.

“We have learned that somewhere in Plegia a woman has given birth to Grima’s Avatar.”

Marcius gave a short prayer as a few of the others exclaimed their disbelief. Cullen’s face became confused as he looked back and forth between his Commander and the Exalt, while Mackenzie raged. Isthes went pale, muttering his disbelief as he subconsciously clutched at the pouch that held his spellbook. Cily spat a string of curses in her native Feroxi dialect while Hilde put a restraining hand on her Commander’s shoulder.

They all knew what this meant. The blood of Naga was alive and flowed through the veins of Roland’s family. He was descended from the great Hero-King Marth, one of the oldest and most noble bloodlines. That Grima’s tainted bloodline had resurfaced after so many centuries could only mean one thing.

“Stop,” Franz said, shouting above the Knights. “Shut up, all of you! Thank you. Do we know where this fell-spawn is, Roland?”

“No,” the Exalt said truthfully.

“How do we know it exists?” Cily asked sharply. “Where did we come by this information?”

“None of my Knights would have discovered this,” Mackenzie growled. “There are few stationed at the border as it is after that skirmish in the north with those damned barbarians. No offense, Cily.”

The Wing Commander snorted and gave her counterpart a rude hand gesture before Marcius stepped forward, bowing his bald head slightly and clearing his throat.

“There have been signs,” the priest explained. “Portents that could only mean one thing. The birth of a two-headed horse in Plegia. The drying of the Southern Boada River. The meteor shower last month… And there have been whispers in Plegia. My brother and sister missionaries have heard them. Whispers of a Savior. Of a child that will lead their nation to greatness. They can only mean one thing.”

“There are all scientific explanations for those phenomena,” Isthes mumbled weakly, stroking his chin in thought.

“There is no scientific explanation for the statues of Naga in the cathedral crying tears of blood,” Marcius countered.

“How many of them?” Cullen asked in the hushed silence that followed the priest’s statement.

“All of them at once,” Marcius said. “The Book of Naga is quite clear about what comes next. The ending of House Ylisse’s bloodline as the world is consumed by fire and death.”

Roland raised his hands for silence before the leaders before him could start bickering again, frowning at his desk before looking up.

“This is not something I’m willing to leave to chance,” the Exalt declared. “I am giving you all a direct order, with no room for interpretation. Prepare your soldiers, all of you. Prepare every man that can hold a weapon. We march on Plegia within the month.”

* * *

“Roland, think this through,” Cullen said desperately. “We should at least confirm that this child exists before we start attacking our neighbors!”

“I am not willing to take that chance!” the Exalt snapped over his shoulder. “I have already lost my wife! I will not sit idly by while the darkness in Plegia grows to consume my children, too!”

“Just leave him be, Cullen,” Franz sighed from behind the other two men. “You know there’s no reasoning with him when he gets like this.”

Roland led them down a set of stairs and into the catacombs beneath the Palace, grabbing a torch as he went and practically tearing it from the sconce. He took the stairs two at a time, Cullen struggling to keep up as Franz kept moving at his own pace. The Hierarch knew where his friend was leading them; there was only one reason to be descending into the catacombs now, so there was no need to hurry.

“Then you would have war!?” Cullen practically shouted. “Mackenzie and Cily will follow you without question, Roland; their oaths demand it! But surely you cannot seriously be planning to drag our peaceful nation into- dammit, Roland! Stop and look at me!”

The Exalt hesitated at the foot of the stairs, glaring over his shoulder as Cullen and Franz struggled to catch up.

“You would even awaken Falchion for this?” Cullen asked, disapproval clear in his tone. “How many will die in the name of your grief!?”

Roland spun now, rage clearly writ on his handsome features.

“You think this is about me grieving!?” he snarled.

“You have to admit that the timing is pretty convenient!” Cullen countered.

“Oh boy…” Franz sighed, pushing his spectacles back up his nose as he joined the other two men.

“How dare you…” Roland growled. “I am your Exalt! I am your Lord!”

“And my Lord is making a mistake!” Cullen shouted. “It would be remiss of me, as a Knight, not to speak up while the Exalt and my childhood friend dooms us to death and bloodshed!”

“I will save us!” Roland thundered. “I will find this abomination if I have to walk every inch of Plegia’s deserts myself, and end it with my own two hands so that my children can grow up in the peace they deserve!”

“Listen to yourself!” Cullen snapped. “Did you even hear what you just said!? This isn’t some soldier or even an animal! This is a child! You are declaring war against an infant!”

“I am declaring war against Grima,” Roland said in a slow, measured tone. “If you do not have the spine for it, you can remain here in Ylisstol.”

With that the Exalt spun on his heel and proceeded into the catacombs. Cullen and Franz looked at each other for a moment before the bigger man sighed and they both resumed following Roland.

“Well of course I’m coming with you!” Cullen called after him. “I can’t let you go off and die on some foolhardy quest and leave those children alone! Naga, Jeanne would never forgive me!”

“I would like to stay here,” Franz piped up. “Seriously. Please let me stay here. I hate that dust-bowl.”

Roland remained silent as Cullen scoffed, grinning back over his shoulder.

“If I’m going to hell I’m dragging you with me,” the Knight grunted.

“Joy,” Franz sighed, hurrying to keep up with the other two men as they descended deeper beneath the palace. “I am a clerk, you know. I do paperwork and count things, I don’t belong on a battlefield. That’s more your…”

The two other men grew silent as they came up to where Roland had stopped, the Exalt running his hand over the new stonework before them. Franz sighed, but respectfully held his tongue, while Cullen bowed his head.

They stood in front of the chamber where Jeanne had been laid to rest, and the one where Roland one day would be too. Cullen and Franz had both liked Jeanne; she and Roland had been a good fit. Cullen had served her gladly, pledging his loyalty as much to his Queen as his Exalt, and while Franz had been as grumpy around her as he always was, he had borne the tendency to smile slightly more around the Queen. The Exalt’s face softened for barely a moment as his fingers traced his wife’s name, carved into the marble, before it hardened and he set off again.

They passed through generations of tombs, names and carvings alongside statues and busts of Roland’s ancestors, all members of the Royal Family of House Ylisse. Eventually they came out into a wide mausoleum, Roland’s torch barely reaching the ceiling and falling far short of the opposite wall as the trio descended the stairs to the central tomb.

“I always feel out of place here,” Franz whispered nervously.

“Because we’re not worthy to stand before him, even in death,” Cullen growled back. “Show some respect.”

They descended to the lowest part of the room, where a single dais sat with a stone casket atop it. At the base of the dais sat a small cairn, with a single sword protruding from it. Carved in the stone casket’s lid was a figure that was said to have once borne the likeness of the great King Marth, but the features had long since worn away to the point where it was like a shadow laying upon the casket.

However, no one doubted that the great Hero King of Altea’s remains rested within.

Roland handed the torch off to the silent Cullen as Franz swallowed, watching reverently as Roland knelt down before the sword. With shaking hands he reached into his pocket and produced the small pendant that he had presented to Jeanne, laying it down on the dais next to the casket.

“Forgive me, Great Ancestor,” the Exalt muttered, his voice echoing around the space. “But I have need of your strength. Please. For our people. For my children…”

The Exalt reached out, fingers wrapping around the worn grip of the holy sword as he rose.

“I will not let my nation and our bloodline fall into ruin!” he announced, drawing Falchion and holding it high.

The sword shimmered as Roland held it up, blue flames dancing up from the hilt along the blade.

“I will save this world!” Roland promised the ghosts of his ancestors as Cullen and Franz watched on. “With my final breath if I must! Our world will never again know Grima’s tyranny!”

* * *

Exalt Roland of Ylisse stood, six months later, in his full armor as he watched the town beneath him burn with a neutral expression. The sun glinted off his golden crown, his hair swept back beneath it.

It had taken far longer than he would have liked for the army to be mustered; the Councilors had opposed him, claiming that they had no reason to disrupt the tentative peace and march on Plegia. But Roland had swayed them, holding Falchion high as it blazed with Naga’s fire as it had in the Mausoleum, showing them the righteousness of his cause. With Franz supporting him they had been unable to argue.

Now he stood, watching as some nameless oasis village just inside the border burned to the ground, listening as the town’s inhabitants screamed as they were burned alive as a message for King Polybius. They were here to save the world, and nothing would stop them. No amount of soldiers would be enough, no amount of blood on his hands would slow him down. Roland would find Grima’s Avatar and slay it. Once that was done… he would try to make things right with Plegia.

“When the fires are out establish a foothold here,” he said over his shoulder. “Try not to get any debris into the oasis. We will need the water.”

“Of course,” Mackenzie said, snapping a smart salute before stomping off to carry out his lord’s orders.

“Well, Polybius won’t be able to ignore this,” Franz sighed from Roland’s other shoulder. “This is one hell of a message, after all. It just screams ‘here we are, come fight us and ignore the small army of scouts we have running around your nation looking for a demon-spawn’, doesn’t it?”

Roland grunted, staring out at the flames but remaining silent.

“History will see me as the aggressor here, won’t it?” he asked quietly after a moment.

“Yup,” Franz sighed, clapping a reassuring hand on his friend’s shoulder. “But look at it this way; the victors write the history books, and you already swore to the Big King himself that you’d win and save the world. So don’t look so glum. We have a world to save! We can make ourselves look better afterwards.”

Franz started to walk away, but not without turning to glance over his shoulder and add one more thing.

“That is what we’re doing here, right?” he asked. “Saving the world?”

Roland remained silent, staring out over the flames. He was sure about his cause, but at that moment doubt crept into his heart.

* * *

“I don’t understand Roland,” Cullen sighed. “This is so… so…”

“Out of character,” Franz drolled without looking up.

The two men were sitting in Cullen’s tent, the Deputy Knight-Commander being of significant enough rank to be afforded one of his own for the campaign. Along with them was the Pegasus Knight Phila, who had been closest to the Exalt and his children since the death of his wife.

Franz was busily going through some paperwork or another, hardly paying attention as the three of them held their customary meetings. Phila was cleaning the soot from her armor with a dour look on her angular face, clearly troubled by the day’s events, too.

“On paper it’s a good plan, though,” the clerk went on. “Piss the Plegians enough to completely miss the hundreds of scouts we sent off into the desert. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Do you not consider the deaths of those villagers ‘something wrong’?” Phila asked hotly.

“Do you not understand sarcasm?” Franz deadpanned, finally looking up.

Even the clerk looked haunted, his face pale and drawn, and his eyes had dark rings around them from lack of sleep, too. There was a small retinue of clerks and tacticians following the army with the rest of the support staff, running Ylisse via correspondence while the entire ruling structure was away.

“I swear I’d have more fun talking to a rock,” the clerk muttered, rubbing at his eyes.

“Enough,” Cullen growled. “Both of you. We’re not here to quarrel amongst each other.”

“Then why are we here?” Franz asked.

The clerk slammed his ledger shut, rising to his feet as he finally snapped.

“All I hear all day is how no one understands why we’re doing this,” he said, his voice rising. “And every night I come here and hear the exact same thing! Aren’t we supposed to be coming up with, I don’t know, a way to help our friend!? A way to stop this madness!?”

“Franz, calm down,” Cullen sighed. “We know exactly how you feel. We hear the same whispers every day.”

“Then why not tell the people!?” Franz snapped. “Tell them they’re fighting to save the world from Grima’s return! Morale is so low it’s not funny! How long until we’re dealing with mass desertion?”

“You agreed to this plan,” the Knight reminded him. “If the Plegians find out we’re looking for the Avatar-”

“Then it’s them that present the united front to protect it, I know,” Franz finished. “And we’re the ones that get whooped. I know. It’s… just frustrating. The soldiers just have to take it on faith that what we’re doing is right?”

The Hierarch sunk back into the chair he’d been sitting in with a sigh, pulling his spectacles off and wiping at them with the edge of his robes.

“It’s just… How do we fix this?” Franz asked sullenly. “Are we really just going to settle for damage control once this is all over?”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” Cullen said. “And in the meantime, we pray that the scouts do their jobs and find the Avatar before any more needless bloodshed.”

There was a moment of silence in the tent, the small flame from the oil lamp flickering in the wind as the two knights and the clerk sat with their thoughts.

“Well?” Franz asked, glancing up at Phila. “You’ve been pretty quiet lately. Got any fresh ideas?”

The Pegasus Knight shook her head slowly, carefully setting down her breastplate.

“Only one,” she said softly. “We keep supporting His Grace, because that’s what he needs. Even if the entire army deserts him, I will still stand with him.”

“As will I,” Cullen added without a thought. “And all of my order.”

“Not that I’ll be much use, but maybe I can be the voice of reason when the rest of you are screaming ‘chop-chop-chop’,” Franz sighed. “Now let’s get serious. Any ideas at all? I’m opening the floor. I may be the smartest one in this tent, but I’m fresh out of ideas.”

“You really are an ass,” Phila snapped. “Why does the Exalt hold you in such high esteem again?”

“Voice of reason?” Franz shrugged, grinning a little as Cullen chuckled.

* * *

After discussing it with her husband, or rather arguing vehemently for a number of days, Alexia had been allowed to relocate with the children into the small village outside the Sanctum of Grima. Validar had secured her a small house, little more than a shack, to use, probably in the hopes that such a dilapidated building would make her want to return to the temple. But she was far more stubborn that that, and couldn’t shake the feeling that the Temple itself was why she had been feeling so tired and drained lately. Once they had moved into the new house she had felt instantly better.

Alexia glanced up as the curtain was drawn back and a hooded form stepped into the darkened room of her new home. Outside it was dark as twilight, the desert winds whipping a deadly sandstorm against the shutters, the howling and rattling creating a cacophony that she barely even registered any more.

“Is it not polite to knock before entering a lady’s room?” she asked, a smirk rising to her face.

“I did,” Mustafa grunted, pulling a thick sash off of his bearded face. “You must not have heard me over the wind.”

The big man shook out his hair, grains of sand flying everywhere with the motion. When he stopped he took another few steps into the darkened room, freezing when he finally looked at where Alexia was sitting.

Or, more accurately, what she was doing.

“Grima forgive my rudeness!” Mustafa shouted, spinning on his heel and facing the wall. “I… I will wait outside, milady!”

Alexia laughed as the big man hastily tried to wrap the scarf around his head again, pulling the baby away from her breast and covering herself. Little Robin whined in irritation, but she had been feeding him for some time now, and he would make do.

“Do not be silly,” she continued to laugh, raising the child to her shoulder to burp him.

“B-but to shame you so…” Mustafa stammered, still staring at the wall.

“There is no shame in providing my son nourishment,” she said, rising to her feet. “It is one of the most natural things in the world. Now stop standing in the corner and face me. I assume you are here for a reason, and not just to mutter awkwardly in the dark?”

The hulking guard glanced over his shoulder, ensuring it was safe before turning around fully. Alexi burst out laughing again at the crimson hue on his cheeks, the baby in her arms starting to cry in fright at the sudden sound.

“Oh, hush now, Robin,” she whispered as she crossed the space.

“Here,” she said, passing the child to Mustafa.

The bearded man’s eyes went wide as he fumbled with the sniffling child, trying to figure out how to hold him.

“But… I… I’ve never…” he stammered.

“Support his head and you’ll figure out the rest,” Alexia laughed over her shoulder. “Seeing as you’re so uncomfortable, I will dress myself properly. This time I will be angry if you walk in on me, though.”

Mustafa nodded, glancing down at the child in his meaty hands. One hand could have held the boy easily, with space to spare. Robin glared back up at the bearded man from beneath a shock of brown hair the same hue as his mother’s, gurgling as he studied the warrior holding him. Mustafa blinked, equal parts astonished and terrified by the tiny person in his hands.

“You… will bring salvation to Plegia,” he told the child in a hushed tone. “One day… you will lead us.”

“He’s a little young for that yet,” Alexia said, reappearing dressed again in her usual clothes and black coat.

“I… merely wished to remind myself of it,” the warrior said, holding the boy back out to his mother. “What did you name him, again?”

“Robin,” Alexia said, smiling down at the baby in her arms.

“Lord Robin,” Mustafa said, a rare smile splitting his beard. “I will carve the name into my memory and my heart.”

“Yes, yes,” Alexia chuckled. “Now, why were you here again?”

Mustafa started a little, clearing his throat and nodding.

“Er, yes, of course,” he said. “King Polybius has requested your presence in the capital. The Ylisseans continue to raze villages around the Easter Oases, and he wanted your opinion on the tactics his army is to use to stop them.”

Alexia scoffed, bouncing Robin a little as she turned away.

“He ‘requests’ my presence?” she repeated. “He knows that Robin is still too young yet to travel so much. Why not simply make it an order?”

“Because he respects you,” Mustafa said. “And your abilities as a tactician and strategist. You are one of the brightest minds in all of Plegia, and-”

“And my priority is to my son and daughter right now,” Alexia snapped. “Return to Polybius and tell him that. Also… tell him when Robin is stronger, I will come and see him.”

Mustafa sighed and nodded.

“He told me you would say as much,” the big man confided. “But the nomad chiefs, they insisted.”

“Well they will have to wait,” Alexia said simply. “I’m sure the Oasis people would understand.”

Mustafa stepped forward to the small table in the center of the circular room and set his satchel down upon it.

“And I knew that you would say that,” he said with a grin. “Which is why I took the liberty of ‘borrowing’ the tactical maps and troop dispositions before I left the capital last night.”

Alexia froze before starting to laugh again, gentler this time so as not to bother her child again.

“You know you could get in trouble for that,” she pointed out. “They may even station you at the Midmire permanently as punishment.”

Mustafa shuddered, his grin faltering.

“Don’t remind me,” he grunted. “But I couldn’t just waste the trip out here. Even if you only give me a little advice to take back to the King, this trip will have been worth it. As will stealing these maps.”

Alexia shook her head, bouncing Robin a few more times before making up her mind.

“Aversa!” she called out.

A young girl, her skin a healthy tan and her long raven hair reaching down to her waist, stepped into the main room from one of the side rooms, moving without hesitation to her mother’s side. She gave Mustafa a sideways glance, and while she couldn’t have been more than five or six the big man could already tell she would grow up to be a beauty.

“Take your brother and put him to bed,” Alexia said kindly. “Then come back out here. I want to run some tactical scenarios by you and see if you’ve been paying attention to my lessons.”

The little girl nodded, still warily eying Mustafa as she took her brother and retreated into one of the side rooms. It made the warrior a little sad that the girl was so mistrustful of him, but he was big and threatening in appearance. He told himself not to let it bother him, and returned his attention to Alexia.

“Where is your husband, anyway?” he asked conversationally.

Alexia snorted as she bent down to study the maps and charts.

“That man isn’t here,” she said bitterly. “And he hasn’t been for quite some time.”

* * *

**~ One Year Later**

Roland strode boldly at the head of his soldiers, leading them by example as his cape rippled in the wind. Dust flew up from the sand dunes as they approached the capital city of Plegia, blinding the troops and tarnishing Roland’s silvery armor, but still they marched.

It had been more than a year now since he’d been home to see his children; more than a year now since this hellish campaign had started. Still his scouts scoured the desert nation, looking for any sign of the Avatar in the small villages and hamlets not on any maps, following nomad caravans and any other leads they could find.

All the while, Roland had led his army in the conquest of the weaker nation.

He was tired now. He was ready for this war to be over. He had given up shaving some time ago, and his face was covered in stubble so thick it was quickly becoming a beard. His complexion had changed, too; despite spending so much time under the harsh sun, he had still grown pale. But he had pushed on, because they were almost done. Just one final push, and they could search Plegia for Grima’s Avatar at their leisure…

In the distance he could see, through the dust cloud, where Plegia would mount their final defense. Hastily constructed barricades of what little timber they had in the desert had been erected, fortified with the much more plentiful bones of anything that had died within the last few months. Behind them stood black-armored men, thousands if not more, waiting for the Ylissean invaders. Above them Roland could see the crest of Plegia’s King on a standard flapping in the wind.

“Men of Ylisse!” he roared above the wind. “King Polybius has taken the field! We can win this today! With me, my brothers! We fight for our homeland! Charge!”

Roland held Falchion high as he shouted, the sword’s blade glinting dully in the afternoon sun. It had been a long time since Naga’s holy sword had blazed with the magical blue fire that signified the Divine Dragon’s blessing.

“Archers!” Roland shouted. “Mages!”

A volley of arrows shot up from the rear lines of the Ylissean forces, raining down on the Plegians. Fire and lighting from the sky began to follow, shattering the Plegian defensive line and giving Roland’s forces the entry-point that they had needed.

That had been Ylisse’s sole upper-hand in the war so far; while Plegia’s Dark Mages were powerful, they were rare and disorganized. Ylisse’s Mage Academy presented a united front, the weaker mages supporting the stronger ones in their casting to great effect; it was because of Isthes and his ilk that Roland had managed to reach the enemy Capital at all.

“Forward!” he roared, breaking into a run.

The men behind him, exhausted now after so long in the desert, gave a weak roar of their own and struggled to follow their Exalt. In the distance Mackenzie and Cullen’s Knights were facing a second force of Plegians, nomads that had come to their King’s aid from the desert, while Cily and Hilde’s Pegasus Knights dominated Plegia’s spattering of aerial combatants, leaving Roland free to lead the ground forces against the enemy without any danger of enemy reinforcement.

This was it; once he controlled the Plegian Capital he would be able to double or even triple his search efforts for the Avatar, if the child wasn’t in the Capital to begin with. He was close now, so close to being done with this business and returning home…

All thoughts fell away as the Exalt suddenly found himself flying through the air in a cloud of dust, stinging heat prickling along his back and his legs.

He landed hard on his front, rolling over onto his back and coughing as he waited for his ears to stop ringing. Slowly and painfully he climbed back to his feet and shambled towards where he’d dropped Falchion, the soldiers around him panicking at the surprise attack.

“M-mages!” Roland coughed through dry, cracked lips. “Reform ranks! Reform ranks and continue the charge!”

As he watched the last of his army’s cohesion collapsed as black fire spread through his men like a great wave leaving soldiers crippled and gasping on the sand, burned and choking.

“What in Naga’s name…?” he muttered, looking all around.

The flames took on the form of a great serpent, rearing up before crashing back down to the sands and throwing more of Roland’s soldiers into the air. He shook his head disbelievingly, watching as the Ylissean mages valiantly tried to limit the enemy spell with wind magic. His army was decimated for another few seconds before he turned back to the Plegian lines, looking for the source of the spell and expecting to see a small army of Dark Mages working together to-

One lone sorcerer stood just outside the Plegian lines with his hands outstretched, his eyes glowing as he chanted his spell. His short, spiked black hair rippled as his mana flowed out of him, and his cruel, angular face was drawn into a superior smirk as he continued to overpower the Ylissean mages.

With a grunt Roland started forward again, favoring his wounded leg as he raised his sword to the sorcerer. The thin mage locked eyes with Roland, but before the Exalt could take another step he found himself flying through the air again as he was bodily thrown over the lap of one of the Pegasus Knights. He glanced up at Phila’s dirt-smeared face, the Knight doing her best to direct her mount back into the sky one handed as she held the Exalt down with the other.

“Let me go!” he shouted, squirming. “Let me go! We can end this here!”

“We have lost, Your Grace!” Phila shouted over the wind as they flew higher.

Roland looked back down to the earth, ignoring the nauseating vertigo and watching as the Plegian army finally charged from behind their barricades; barricades that no Ylissean had even reached yet. The Ylissean infantry were overrun within minutes by the angry Plegians who swarmed over them like locusts. Roland watched disbelievingly as the Knights in the distance turned, abandoning their countrymen.

“What is Mackenzie doing!?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Knight-Commander Mackenzie is dead!” Phila said sadly. “Sir Cullen has ordered a full retreat back to the Oasis Fort.”

Shutting his eyes tight, Roland tried to block out the screams from his soldiers beneath them as Phila flew directly towards the desert. He looked back, gaze lingering on one solitary figure standing separated from the rest of the Plegians.

The lone sorcerer was watching them leave, and although Roland couldn’t see it from this distance he knew that the man was smiling.

* * *

That night Polybius laughed as he strode triumphantly back into his palace, dust from the dunes still falling off of him with every step he took at the head of his retinue of guards. Behind them were hundreds of the soldiers from the battle, invited to the palace’s victory celebrations. Large swathes of his delicate golden armor had been painted a brown so dark it was almost black by the combination of Ylissean blood and dirt from the battlefield.

“At last, we’ve routed those damned Dirt-Farmers!” he announced loudly. “And it’s all thanks to one woman in particular!”

The handsome King, nearing middle age now yet still retaining the boyish glint to his eyes, spread his arms wide and smiled happily when Alexia stepped out into the main hall of the palace.

“All I did was make the plans, your majesty,” she said, bowing her head humbly. “It was your strength and valor that carried the day.”

“Actually, it was my spell that turned the tide, but don’t let that get in the way of patting yourself on the back,” a cold, haughty voice cut in.

“All part of my plan, dear,” Alexia added, just as coldly.

Validar scoffed as he stepped into the light of the torches, his robes as clean and pristine as when he had left for the battlefield that morning. He ran a hand over his spiked black hair, his robes open now to display the lanky, well-muscled torso beneath.

“Your Majesty,” he greeted with a bow.

Polybius frowned, not missing the mocking tone in the sorcerer’s voice, but held his tongue.

“We appreciate your assistance today, Hierophant,” the King said, his voice little more than a growl at this point.

Validar rose again and both men eyed each other across the hall as the victorious soldiers began to flood into it, oblivious to the mood. Servants were on the men immediately, bringing them food and drink as the festive mood returned.

“Yes, eat and drink your fill!” Polybius laughed, turning away from Validar and Alexia. “Today we celebrate the turning of the tide and the beginning of the end of this war!”

From her Alexia’s side Validar scoffed, turning away from the scene of revelry.

“The beginning of the end,” he muttered. “How fitting. The fool doesn’t know how right he is.”

Alexia scowled at her husband’s retreating back, torn between following the father of her children or joining the soldiers whose lives had been spared today thanks to her planning. The choice was taken away from her when Polybius’ booming laugh echoed through the hall.

“Alexia!” he shouted over the soldiers. “I would have my tactician drink at my side!”

The woman took a deep breath, smoothing her clothes beneath her favorite coat and ensuring her hair was neat before smiling and stepping back into the torchlight.

* * *

Roland raged, throwing the light camp table across the tent as Cullen and Cily stood to one side stone-faced. Franz sat in one corner, frowning at his old friend’s loss of control but otherwise remaining silent.

“What were you thinking!?” the Exalt roared, turning on the two commanders. “We were so close; so close to ending this!”

“That wasn’t how things looked from where I was sitting, Your Grace,” Cullen said evenly. “I made the best decision available to me-”

“You disobeyed orders!” Roland snarled. “I had him! I had Polybius in our grasp!”

“Lord Exalt, at what point did this war become about conquest?” Cullen asked, his tone still neutral. “Are we not here looking for Grima’s Avatar?”

“How dare you question me!?” he snapped, turning away. “We cannot move freely in Plegia until we have control! You know that!”

“You’ve lost sight of what this war was about!” Cullen suddenly snapped.

“Knight-Commander!” Cily growled. “You forget yourself!”

“Let him speak,” Franz piped up. “The Exalt needs to hear it.”

Roland turned slowly, glaring daggers at his two oldest friends. Cullen stepped forward, bringing him face to face with the other man.

“Look me in the eye and tell me we’re still doing what’s right,” he said, his voice a harsh whisper. “If you can do that, I’ll get down on my knees and beg you for your forgiveness.”

“We… we…” Roland said, struggling now.

The Exalt reeled as if struck, stumbling backwards from his friend’s accusation.

“I… I am blessed by Naga,” he said weakly. “I… what we do is… righteous…”

“Then why do I feel like my soul has been tarnished!?” Cullen snapped. “I have followed your every order without question, Roland, never once doubting that you held what was best for our people in your heart! But this… this continued slaughter and subjugation is not the man I pledged my sword to!”

With that Cullen spun on his heel and stomped from the tent, leaving a very conflicted-looking Cily and a stone-faced Franz alone with their Exalt. Roland leaned down and supported himself on the low chest that held his belongings, feeling his strength waning.

“Leave me,” he said after a moment of tense silence.

* * *

Cullen let out a deep sigh as he lowered himself into the camp chair in his room, tenderly holding his side as blood seeped from between the plates of armor. He didn’t even know when he’d been hit, but the wound was starting to ache now…

Franz strode into the tent without a care for his old friend’s modesty, casting him a glance over the rims of his spectacles before perching on the edge of Cullen’s cot.

“Phila’s on her way,” he said simply. “She had to go and get a staff.”

Cullen nodded and hissed at the pain that the motion brought.

“Didn’t even realize I’d been hit,” he muttered apologetically.

Franz shrugged. “Happens to the best of us. Well, not me because I’m a clerk, but…”

“But you may yet have to put that training I gave you to use,” Cullen laughed weakly.

Franz blew a sigh out his nose as Cullen leaned back, starting to undo the clasps on his chest-plate’s side. The breastplate fell away and hit the ground with a dull thud, the sound loud in the silence between the two friends. They both knew what they needed to say, but neither wanted to be the first to admit that Roland had lost his way.

“You know, I think that we went about this the wrong way,” Franz finally sighed. “We should have just sent scouts to comb through the desert covertly, mustered our army to be ready to march when they found him and hey-ho, day is done.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Cullen chuckled, hissing again as his wounded ribs shifted. “Argh… We can’t turn to doubt now. We know the reason we’re here is just, but…”

Fortunately, before Cullen had to finish his thought Phila made her reappearance. However instead of holding a staff her hands were empty, and a second form stepped into the tent behind her.

“He insisted,” she said evenly, indicating to the priest behind her.

Marcius nodded slowly, beaming the trio a tired smile. The priest was still wearing his light silver armor, coated with dirt and gore from the day’s fighting. The War Priests had been just as devastated by the day’s loss as the rest of the infantry, but their dual roles as healers made their loss even more dramatic. Franz had seen the preliminary loss reports in Roland’s tent; more than half of Marcius’ order, close to three quarters, lay dead in the sands.

“I have come to tend to your wounds, as is befitting a priest,” the priest said evenly, pulling a compact staff from behind his back and starting towards Cullen. “But I had also thought to hear your confession.”

“Nothing to confess,” Cullen grunted, shifting a little to present his wounded flank.

“I suppose that conspiring behind your ruler’s back is only a crime, not a sin, then,” Marcius said good-humoredly.

“Do not fear,” he said with a chuckle at Phila and Franz’s worried faces. “My order are here to aid you in more ways than just to act as your healer. For instance, our missionaries can move unnoticed where scouts cannot.”

“That a fact?” Cullen groaned.

Marcius nodded, setting about to healing the newly-promoted Knight Commander’s wounds.

“I must start by saying that I have a tendency to babble to myself as I work,” Marcius laughed. “So you will have to excuse me, and ignore anything I say about confidential reports that have yet to reach the Exalt.”

Franz and Phila exchanged a glance, both leaning forward to listen.

“It seems that there is an area in the south,” Marcius began. “Where the Army’s scouts have yet to return from. The missionaries sought to spread Naga’s light there. Do you know what they found?”

Franz shook his head, the two knights going still.

“Corpses,” Marcius said slowly. “Not just of Ylissean scouts. Of Plegian Villagers and Nomads. Hundreds of them, crucified at the foot of a mountain. Left there as a sacrifice.”

“Or as a warning,” Cullen murmured.

“That is not how the Grimleal think,” Marcius said with a sad smile. “They are secure in their power now, more than ever. They draw strength from Grima’s essence, and this land as his final resting place, is suffused with his very soul. They have nothing to warn us of. The moment we set foot into Plegia we set foot into their domain.”

“Well, now I know why there were gaps in the reports Roland was passing off to me,” Franz sighed. “I think he was so set on ‘causing a distraction’ that he didn’t even notice.”

“He probably thought the scouts were still doing their jobs,” Cullen grunted, shifting again as Marcius’ magic continued to work. “The southern badlands are pretty harsh territory. It would take some time to do a full sweep, and I know we didn’t start sending squads down that way until a few months ago.”

“So what does this mean?” Phila asked.

“Nothing,” Cullen sighed. “We keep pulling back and plan our next move from the Oasis Fort. We can’t keep skulking about the desert with numbers like these. For one, we’ll run out of water. Very, very fast.”

“And if the Exalt disagrees with your plan?” Phila persisted.

“I’ll make him see reason,” Cullen sighed. “Or what little he has left of it, anyway.”

“I will communicate to those that are left in my order and have them try and shed some light on the badlands situation,” Marcius promised.

“Pun intended?” Franz asked with a chuckle.

The older priest froze for a moment before he chuckled, too, a smile coming to his lined face.

“I will have to remember that one,” he said, shaking his head.

* * *

That night Roland sat with his head bowed in the darkness of his tent, still fully clothed and armored. His burns had been tended to and healed by Marcius, and his clothes had been replaced for mending by the camp’s quartermaster. Everything was taken care of, yet still Roland could not sleep.

He blamed himself for the rout at the capital. It was the most logical place to lay blame, after all. And these days it came so easily, so naturally.

With a shuddering sigh Roland crumpled the casualty report in his hand.

They had lost. There would be no coming back from this defeat. Seventy-three percent casualties of his infantry forces, including most of the War Priests. Mackenzie was dead, as was Isthes; the mage had been overwhelmed by the power of the spell he’d been trying to combat and fallen prey to it himself.

There was no more victory to be had. If he drew any more soldiers from Ylisse there would be no men left in the nation.

Yet… destroying Grima’s Avatar was so important a cause, he would do it. Roland would cripple his nation in the hopes that it would one day recover. The blood of thousands already flowed at his feet; what was a few more lives compared to that when the lives of so many more rested on his shoulders?

He would do it alone if he had to. Let Cullen and the rest return to Ylisse with their tails between their legs; Roland would carry on single-handedly if he needed to.

With rough, manic movements the Exalt tore the crown from his head and threw it across the room.

His gaze snapped up to his tent’s entrance, just as his resolution hardened. A single figure slipped in, his white robes filthy and his silver breastplate tarnished.

“Your Grace,” Marcius said, bowing low to hide the cold grin on his face. “I bring news from the scouts. I believe we have found it.”

* * *

Validar woke suddenly, bolting into a sitting position in the plush bed he was using in the palace. He was alone; he always slept alone. But a strange sound had awoken him. He glanced over to the closed window, a darker shadow standing out against the night sky behind the glass.

The sorcerer rose slowly, moving to the window and opening it to let the crow into his room. The bird cawed quietly, holding out its leg. Tied to the appendage was a small piece of paper; a message from one of his spies.  

He threw back his head and laughed as he read what was on the paper, spinning and hastily pulling on his robes before bending to stuff his belongings unceremoniously into his travel bags. Then, once he was done, he straightened his collar and set off through the darkened hallways of the palace, still grinning like a madman.

Somewhere below him he could still hear the sounds of the soldiers reveling in their victory like the fools they were; this war was far from over, and celebrating now was presumptuous in the extreme. Still, though, he could sense his wife’s presence on the same floor as him without even needing to use the scrying hex he’d placed on her.

He barged into her chambers, Mustafa bolting into a sitting position in the small sitting room as Validar passed him.

“Get up, we’re leaving,” was all he said to the muscular warrior as he passed.

He ignored the guard’s blustering, passing directly into his wife’s sleeping chambers. To her credit his entrance had already woken her, and with a scowl she drew to her feet.

“Ah, the vaunted Hierophant,” she said sarcastically. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Spare me your wit,” Validar snapped, coming to a stop directly in front of her. “We’re leaving. Get dressed and make ready. We leave before sunrise.”

“You will have to get permission from the King first,” Alexia began. “After all, I am his-”

“They have found him,” Validar hissed, leaning closer to his wife. “And we need to go. I need you to organize the defense of the Sanctum if we are to protect the child. Make. Ready. We are leaving.”

With that Validar spun, making to leave the room. He stopped when Alexia called out to him, though, and glared at her over his shoulder.

“Then all we need do is move him,” she said. “We do not need to be so paranoid about this. There is no way the Ylisseans could mount an attack so soon after the beating we gave them today.”

“I received word,” Validar ground out, carefully maintaining his calm veneer. “If we reach the Sanctum in three days’ time, we can end this war now. We will be unable to convince that fool-King and the army will not muster fast enough. I have all the men we need stationed at the Sanctum, but we must leave now if we are to reach it in time. For our son’s sake.”

Alexia’s stand-offish behavior wilted with the mention of their son being in danger, and she nodded in resignation.

“Give me a moment to ready my things,” she whispered.

* * *

Cullen woke to a familiar sound the next morning, slowly sitting up and letting out a groan as the previous day’s wounds sought to have him remain in his cot. With a sinking feeling settling into his stomach the new Knight Commander rose and shambled to the opening of his tent as the sound blared again.

“He can’t be serious,” Cullen muttered, drawing back the flap of his tent and stepping into the pre-dawn light. “That’s suicide… He knows…”

All around him soldiers were hastily breaking camp, exhaustedly shambling about in much the same way Cullen himself was. In the distance the horns sounded again, the clear tones unmistakable.

Roland was calling a muster. He intended to march.

* * *

Emmeryn glanced up from the book she was reading in the gardens as one of the servants came running over to her, the man in House Ylisse livery panting and out of breath.

“My… milady come quickly!” he gasped. “It is… the army has returned! Your father…”

Emmeryn’s eyes went wide for a moment before she jumped to her feet and raced past the servant, completely forgetting her etiquette lessons and running for the main hall of the palace as fast as she could.

She raced past the surprised gardeners, leaping over bushes and passing through the doors into the garden’s atrium. She raced through the servant corridors without a care for how they would perceive her, eventually coming out into the Hall itself.

When she saw the small knot of bodies standing before the throne she felt moisture rising to her eyes.

“No… No, please… Father, not you too…”

The soldiers turned, filthy and covered in bloody bandages. Out from among them Franz stepped, walking directly to Emmeryn’s side. She couldn’t help but notice that even the Hierarch walked with a limp, favoring his left side.

“Princess, I’m glad to see you well,” he said, his usual sardonic tone muted.

Emmeryn pushed past him, tears running from her eyes as she approached the throne.

No one sat on it.

As she reached the small dais a ragged Cullen stepped forward, holding her a long bundle wrapped in rags.

“Princess I’m… I’m so sorry,” the Knight rasped, his voice heavy with emotion. “I failed you, I… I failed your father… I’m so sorry…”

Emmeryn’s hands trembled as she unwrapped the bundle Cullen held out to her, gasping and drawing back when she saw what was within. Falchion rested in the rags, the blade tarnished and still smeared with blood.

“We could not even touch it to clean it,” Cullen said, tears gathering in the big knight’s eyes.

“Th-then my Father is…” she whispered.

“I’m… afraid so…” Cullen nodded, his voice breaking.

“How…?” Emmeryn asked.

“We… assaulted the Plegian Capital, but we were betrayed,” Phila said, stepping out from behind Cullen. “One of the War Priests was a sleeper agent. He… poisoned the Exalt’s mind. He led us into a trap.”

“One of the War Priests?” Emmeryn asked, aghast.

“Father Marcius,” Cullen spat. “He fooled us all. Played us for fools and led us by the nose into a trap where…”

The Knight cut himself off as Emmeryn fell to her knees, her shoulders shaking as she reached out and took the dirty sword from Cullen’s hands, holding it tightly to her chest and starting to sob. Phila knelt down next to the girl and comfortingly wrapped her arms around her.

Emmeryn wailed as she came to the realization that she and her siblings were all alone now.

* * *

Alexia resisted the urge to sigh as she wandered through the burned remains of the town that had once sat at the base of the Temple at the Dragon’s Table, puffs of ash rising with every step she took.

The war was over now. The Ylisseans had been utterly defeated at the Dragon’s Table.

Their Exalt had forced the army to march through the desert immediately after their defeat at the Capital. Many soldiers had deserted. Many had simply dropped dead from exhaustion or thirst. Those that had made it to the Table had been so exhausted they could barely stand, let alone hold their weapons.

And even then, Validar had ordered the priests and Mages from the temple to slaughter the Ylisseans. To burn the village to pen them in. To…

“Milady,” a familiar voice called out softly behind her.

“Mustafa,” she said in greeting without turning. “I am just… thinking to myself.”

“Anything worth sharing?” the big warrior asked, coming closer.

“I was wondering what could drive a man to the point the Exalt reached,” Alexia admitted. “By all accounts he was never an evil man, yet…”

“I could not say, milady,” Mustafa sighed. “I am but a single warrior. The minds of Kings and Exalts are beyond me.”

Alexia nodded, crouching down near one of the scorched ruins. It was what remained of the little house she had shared with her two children for a time.

“I actually came to say goodbye, milady,” Mustafa said hesitantly. “The King has ordered me back to the Capital. It appears the disappearing act that Validar had us play may have won us the war, but it still angered His Majesty. I fear I will be assigned to duties in the Midmire after all.”

He said the last part of his sentence with a laugh, but still Alexia felt sadness grip at her heart.

“Very well, then,” she nodded without looking up. “Thank you for all your service, Mustafa. I wish you the best.”

“And I you, milady.”

There was a brief moment of silence before Mustafa’s heavy footfalls retreated, leaving Alexia alone with her thoughts and doubts once more.

One thing was for certain, though.

Validar was not the man she had thought he was.

She would do some research, do some digging. If her fears were correct, then her children were in danger.

* * *

A week later Franz let out a tired sigh, sinking into a chair in his office. After so long the room he had spent all his time in before felt alien to him, but he would just get used to it again.

A knock at his door was the only warning he received before Cullen stepped in moments later, the Knight Commander resplendent in his formal armor and mantle.

“Quite the coronation,” Franz sighed. “I’m surprised the people turned out to witness it after what Roland did. Do you, uh… need something, Knight Commander?”

Cullen nodded, coming to a stop directly in front of his old friend’s desk.

“Do you think it was all a lie?” the Knight Commander asked seriously. “Everything about Grima’s Avatar?”

“That’s what’s been on your mind? I honestly don’t think it matters now,” Franz snorted. “Even if it was true, there’s nothing we could do about it now. We have no soldiers. Both Knight Orders are extremely depleted. The mages aren’t even talking to us, and the War Priests are all but extinct.”

“But…” Cullen started, before sighing and letting his head droop. “You were in the Mausoleum that night. You saw Falchion’s flames.”

“I don’t even remember what I saw anymore,” the Hierarch sighed. “Face it, Cullen. The victors write the history books, and we were not the victors in this war.”

Franz removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes before continuing.

“Marcius played us for fools, Cullen. All of us, even his own Grand Cleric. I think we have to just admit that and move on.”

“And if there was some truth to the lie?” Cullen persisted.

“Then we pray that someone stronger than Roland comes along to stop it,” Franz shrugged. “Take the Prince. Turn him into a warrior. I’ll help Exalt Emmeryn keep the peace until then. Now if you’ll excuse me the Duke of Jagen is supposed to be sending us men to reinforce the garrison, and I have to work out where to put them all. Apparently he’s sending his youngest son to train to be a knight, too. Word is that he’s quite the child prodigy. You’ll have your work cut out for you.”

Cullen nodded, stepping back.

“You know,” Franz added without looking up. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think that there was nothing but falsehood to our cause. I think the truth just got… forgotten in the fighting. Might not be a bad idea to instill the knowledge ‘don’t lose sight of your goal’ into the Prince while you’re training him.”

“I’ll be sure to beat it into him,” Cullen promised with a sad smile. “I’ll make him a warrior the likes of which even Grima’s Avatar fears.”

Franz nodded, shuffling through his paperwork.

“Good. Now let’s put this ugliness behind us, mourn the lost and… move on with our lives.”


End file.
